


Holding

by Gemi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, horror-fluff, written pre-s5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25733269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemi/pseuds/Gemi
Summary: “I can’t,” Jon finally says. It’s more of a whisper, and Martin hates how it sounds. If it wasn’t for the fact that he knows what happens when Jon starves, he would happily throw the whole damn box into the fireplace.But Martin does know.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 206





	Holding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LineCrosser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LineCrosser/gifts).



Basira sends a box of old, yellowed statements two days after Martin and Jon arrive at the cottage. It’s a simple cardboard box, one of the corners blunted by bad handling from postage. Martin puts it on the kitchen counter, near the tea bags. Easy access- like a fruit bowl, except papers packed with trauma. It seems the logical place to put it. 

Jon doesn’t touch any of them.

Martin doesn’t notice at first. Or, he  _ does _ notice. But he doesn’t want to push. The idea feels rude and ungrateful, because Jon has let Martin invade his personal space  _ more _ than enough in these past days since they fled the institute. Whenever Martin feels a little cold, whenever the fog is too thick outside, he can’t help but stick close. 

They have held hands, they kissed three times since they left London and they have even slept in the same bed ever since they arrived, soon seven days. A whole week. It’s mind blowing and exciting, but it’s also  _ normal _ in a relationship.

Being glued to Jon’s side because it’s  _ foggy _ outside is a bit less normal. Sitting next to the bathtub as Jon showers because Martin feels a little cold, a little chilly- that is definitely not normal. It’s intruding and invasive, but all Jon does is snark and huff and awkwardly smile and flick water drops Martin’s way when he exits. 

And so Martin doesn’t want to intrude, not when Jon is clearly uncomfortable about his powers, not when Martin remembers the hysterical people in Peter’s- in  _ Martin’s _ office. Complaining about a man that was  _ all eyes _ in their dreams. 

But it’s also the thought of those people that  _ does _ make him bring it up.

Jon is on the couch and scowling down at sudoku, one of few things he can’t automatically know the answers to  _ (yet) _ when Martin puts the paper down in front of him. As nervous as he is, Martin has to smile when Jon automatically holds a hand out without looking up. As if he doesn’t already have a still steaming cup of tea on the table.

Jon frowns when there is no warm cup of tea in his hand. He looks up, then down, then pales. Martin’s nerves return and he sits down next to Jon before he can change his mind and snatch the statement back, hide it away and pretend he never took it out of the box. 

“You, um, need to eat,” he says, tries to make it a joke and knows it falls flat before it’s out of his mouth. 

“Martin,” Jon says, stops. The sudoku book in his hands wrinkles and bends and Martin doesn’t save it. It’s a cheap one, they bought it at a gas station. They can get a new one. Instead he presses his shoulder against Jon’s, tries to reassure. 

They are silent for a while. Jon isn’t looking away from the statement, but he’s also not moving, not fleeing. Martin waits and watches, absently tugging at the hems of his sweater. Fidgeting. A bad habit, his mum always said. 

“I can’t,” Jon finally says. It’s more of a whisper, and Martin  _ hates _ how it sounds. If it wasn’t for the fact that he  _ knows _ what happens when Jon starves, he would happily throw the whole damn box into the fireplace. But Martin  _ does _ know. 

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, and Jon twitches. Goes to put the sudoku book down, but his hands tremble and instead he drops it to the floor. A soft thud. None of them bend down to get it. “Jon, I… I know it’s hard, but- but you can’t go without it. Not completely?” 

It comes out as a question even though it’s not. He grimaces. Jon grimaces. Jon doesn’t look away from the paper.

“It’s not  _ actual _ food, Martin,” he says, “I won’t actually starve. I- I can be without it. It’s been a week and I’m  _ fine _ .”

“What if you’re not? What if- what if you do the thing again,” Martin says, gestures vaguely. Jon knows what thing he means, of course. Hysterical people and bad dreams. They are still happening, after all, the dreams. “What if you do… do that again, and, I mean. It’s a small town.” It’s a small town with bad or no internet connection, no police station because it’s just so  _ calm _ . There are more cows than people here.

If Jon starts demanding statements from anyone in such a small town- it can’t end well. There’s nowhere to hide.

“It’s a village,” Jon mumbles, and Martin snorts and pulls him closer. Dares to wrap one arm around him. Jon leans heavier against him, a pointy but warm pressure against Martin’s side. “Not a town. It’s too small to be one.”

“Then it’s even more important that you- that you don’t  _ do _ that. I mean, I assume you have seen Beauty and the Beast? If you accidentally feed on someone here, the  _ mob _ that would-”

“You would stop me.”

“I would  _ try _ , Jon. It’s…” Martin falters. “It’s not like I can stop you asking someone.”

“Except you could,” he insists, because of  _ course _ Jon insists. He’s too stubborn for his own good, and Martin holds back a groan as Jon continues, “We could make it a rule. Don’t let me talk when we’re in the village, don’t let me talk to anyone. That way, if I try, you know I will…  _ ask _ people, and you can stop me.”

“This  _ really _ doesn’t solve the, um, the whole starving problem.”

“It’s not  _ food _ , Martin!”

“It might as well be! I, look, Jon, it’s- it’s. I feel that stuff too, alright? When we passed that- that old woman the other day, in the store? I just wanted to reach out. Put her-” Martin swallows, tries to ignore the tremble in his voice as he says, “Put her away. Aside. I  _ wanted _ to.”

“You didn’t,” Jon says, but he looks pained. Martin manages a smile.

“I didn’t,” he agrees, “But I think, if, if I had been with… with Peter as long as you were the Archivist at work, I would have. Easily. I might even have needed it and the point is, Jon, I much rather you at least read the statements than not doing  _ anything _ . You told me you got sick in America, didn’t you?”

Jon looks at the statement. 

The cottage feels cold. It’s foggy outside, and Martin feels a chill travel down his spine as he watches Jon stare at the piece of paper, yellowed with age. His hands are trembling and grasping at nothing. 

“Yes,” Jon says, and Martin takes those trembling hands into his own. Squeezes them, before that’s not enough. Before he lets them go in favor of pulling Jon close, arms around him. To ward off the chill, to stop Jon’s staring.

  
He doesn’t hug back at first. But when he does, he presses impossibly closer. Wraps his arms around Martin in return, his hands warm spots of pressure against the back of Martin’s neck, his upper back.

“Please, Jon,” he mumbles, “Read the statements.”

When Jonathan Sims sighs, it’s like his entire body deflates. He doesn’t break the hug, nor does he sound sad or angry or anything. Only tired.

“Alright,” he says, and Martin hugs him tighter, “I’ll read the statements.”

  
  


~

  
  


The world ends, because of course it does.

Jon doesn’t know if he still needs to read statements. He doesn’t think it  _ matters _ . But Martin insists.

He thinks it’s because Martin wants a sense of normalcy. He can’t blame him; Martin was the one who had to cover up the broken window, saw it all unfurl while Jon was…  _ chanting _ what Jonah wrote. Is the one stuck in the cottage with the man who ended the world. So while Jon doesn’t think reading a statement is needed, he still agrees to do it.

On one condition.

“If I start reading a- a chant again,” he says, the paper crumpling, wrinkling as his hands tremble, “I want you to stop me. I can’t, I can’t let it get worse.”

“ _ We _ won’t let it get worse, Jon,” Martin replies, his hands a little cold but welcome as they cup Jon’s face. He smiles. Even when Jon tried his best to not like Martin, that smile had always made him feel a little more than he wanted to. Now it soothes something inside of him, makes it easier to see Martin and only Martin, despite the fog swimming around in his eyes. Jon wasn’t the only one changed by the  _ door _ opening. “And it’s not your fault. I  _ told _ you so.”

“I want you to sit next to me and be ready to shut me up,” Jon says instead of insisting that it  _ was _ his fault. They have already had several arguments about it. “Please,” he adds, and Martin sighs.

“I’ll sit right behind you, and I will try my best to stop you from reciting another chant,” he says and kisses Jon’s forehead.

It’s… still new. No, not new. Unexpected- he still half expects Martin to have enough, to leave. It would be the logical thing to do. 

Instead Martin pulls back with a tired smile. His thumb brushes against the spot where Jon, apparently, has a dimple. 

“I’m here, Jon,” he says, and Jonathan Sims, the Archive, manages a trembling smile.

“I know, Martin.”

He does know, too. He knows everything now. 

It’s still hard to believe.

  
  


~

  
  


The first couple of statements are normal. They try to space them out, not knowing when they will get their hands on new ones- if they  _ ever _ will, now with how the world is. They haven’t been able to get down to the village to call Basira. Not that there is much of a village left. Not the right kind, anyway. 

Then comes the statement that isn’t normal. 

It’s mocking. Snuck in near the bottom of the pile, starting innocently enough. Just like  _ the _ statement did. A man walking his dog on a normal, cloudy day in London quickly dives into the mocking words of victory. 

It’s not a chant.

It’s only Jonah Magnus wanting to rub it in.

The statement, however, won’t let him go.

It won’t make things worse. Not for the world- it only bites at Jon, and at first Martin doesn’t know what to  _ do _ . No one is in peril except Jon, who is sitting hunched over on their bed, knuckles going white and paper being torn as he struggles to stop reading. When he had tried to be practical, tried to plan out what to do if it all repeated-

Choking Jon into unconsciousness had been an option.

He doesn’t want to do that for this. 

Finally, Martin climbs into the bed. Grits his teeth and ignores the smug, mocking way Jon speaks to himself, Jonah’s words dripping like venom. Wants to scream back at that  _ monster _ , but it wouldn’t do any good. So he climbs into bed. Settles behind Jon and all the pillows that has been hoarded there.

“Jon,” he says, wraps his arms around him in a firm hug, “I’m going to put my hand on your mouth. I know it will be hard, but please try and close your eyes.” He releases a shaky sigh. Raises one hand. 

Of course it’s not easy.

If not for the words being forced out, Martin suspects the Eye would make Jon bite him. Instead he muffles the barrage of words, firmly presses his hand down, tries to place his hand in a way that he can control the jaw, too. If only a little. Can feel a muscle in Jon’s jaw jump against his thumb, and the words become more fierce. Almost growling, and Martin presses down harder. Enough that he can feel Jon’s teeth scrape against his palm, words snarled out now. 

He makes it as difficult as possible to read the statement. Jon’s eyes are twitching, but his entire body has begun to struggle. The statement doesn’t rip apart, nor does it end. It goes on forever, and he squeezes harder and harder. Keeps calling Jon’s name, keeps telling him it’s fine, it’s not his  _ fault _ -

It takes a while. 

By the end of it, he is certain that Jon will have bruises from the too hard hug Martin put him in. Jon’s body is trembling and limp, and Martin’s hand feel wet and warm. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and starts removing his hand. But Jon shakes his head. Presses back into it, and Martin stills. They are both breathing heavily. The room is small and cramped, barely enough space for the bed, much less their struggling gasps. 

“Jon?” he asks. Worries at his bottom lip, a bad habit his mum never quite got out of him, “Do… you want me to stay like this?”

A weak nod. 

Martin can see part of Jon’s face from his current position. He looks as exhausted as Martin feels; but his eyes are closed. Body still trembling, but there is a kind of morose relief in the exhaustion.

“Alright,” he agrees. Kisses Jon’s cheek, and hopes Jon won’t mind the stubble. “Alright. I’ll, uh, I’ll stay.” Martin manages a smile. “Maybe put the kettle on, after, yeah?”

Against his hand, he can feel Jon weakly smile back.

  
  


~

  
  


They really have too many pillows in the bed. Martin doesn’t know where they keep coming from, but he will take what he can. Too many pillows are better than too few.

Jon’s hair is still a little damp from the shower. It clings, just a little, to Martin’s arm as they lay on the bed. It’s a little itchy, but he can ignore it. As long as Jon thinks his arm is, apparently, the best pillow- then Martin thinks he can ignore most things. Even the knot of fabric digging into his skin.

“Are you sure you want me to read this?” he asks, manages to slip a finger under one page to flip it, “I thought you hated poetry.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Jon replies. 

“Seriously?”

“I don’t mind, Martin,” he says assuringly, and despite the blindfold, his smile is relaxed. Happy, even, and Martin is certain that the mere sight of it is enough to chase away the cold fog forever. “Drivel can be… relaxing, sometimes.”

“Drivel, huh?” he tries to sound offended, but Martin knows he fails miserably. Instead he kisses Jon’s brow, before focusing back on the page, “I guess it is, a little bit. This is- alright, don’t judge, but I bought this before I started working at the Institute. It’s, uh.”

“It’s…?” Jon prods.

“It’s not the best. But it  _ is _ heartfelt. Which is the most important thing about poetry, you know.”

“Are you reading me poetry that doesn’t even meet  _ your _ standards?”   
  
“I think I oughta take offense for that,” Martin muses, “And I did say heartfelt, you know!”

They both ignore the rattling of the windows. It sounds a bit like a ghoul is banging on it. Jon is wearing a blindfold, so he can’t see the twisted face staring down at them. 

Martin simply refuses to. He’s good at that. Ignoring things.

It’s easy to ignore, too. Curled up in bed, Jon snuggled close. Too many pillows, thick blankets. Their own little cozy spot in the apocalypse. Even if the book doesn’t meet Jon’s standards.

“I can get something else. I think I saw a folder with transcripts from Archers-” 

The sound Jon makes reminds Martin very much of a cat choking on a hairball. He bites at his lip to avoid laughing, and absolutely does not succeed. 

“I prefer drivel over  _ trash _ . Also I’m comfortable and do not want to move,” Jon huffs and presses closer. His shoulder digs into Martin’s chest. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll keep reading. Tell me when you want me to remove the blindfold,” Martin laughs. Clears his throat and begins to read again.

He stutters a lot, when reading. And the poems really  _ aren’t _ good- it’s a collection from some kind of school competition, the book a worn down copy he had bought secondhand. And Jon really doesn’t hold back any scathing comments. 

But it’s good.

_ They _ are good. For now, at least.

The apocalypse can wait just one more day. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for LineCrosser, who draws amazing art <3  
> I also started this before season 5 started! I only recently managed to finish it, and I hope you all like it :D


End file.
